


Ties That Bind

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Suit Porn, Ties & Cravats, not really a crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 17:39:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1437007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn't do ties, but when Tony Stark throws a charity bash for homeless teens, Clint can't refuse. Fortunately, he knows somebody with ties to share.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It was going to be a PWP, really, but it took an unexpected turn. Not AoS compliant. Not because I don't like AoS, it's just easier to write Avengers. I'm too lazy to struggle with new characters. Josiah Sanches from M7 makes an appearance because I needed a character that fit the job description. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Marvel Characters belong to Marvel, Josiah Sanchez appears courtesy of MGM.

_Prologue_

Clint looks at the invitation Phil is holding out to him. It's on white, thick paper with embossed letters in a fancy script. It feels expensive. It feels like Tony Stark ordered it to impress and lure in every millionaire in New York. It makes Clint nervous. "I have to go, right?" he asks dubiously. 

Barefoot and shirtless, in a pair of worn jeans that are barely legal on his hips, his hair still damp from the shower, Phil can't look enough at his husband. Phil leans against the door, and raises a brow. "Are you asking me as your handler? I won't order you to do something you don't want to do, but I think Tony had a reason to invite you, specifically, to attend."

"Is he doing this to torture me? He knows I'm not great at this sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?"

"You know, ties and suits and fancy cutlery and crystal that looks like if I breathe on it, it will shatter."

"First, you look amazing in a suit. Second, you're perfectly comfortable with any kind of cutlery, and third, you're a man who works with hair-trigger weapons, you dance on the high spaces like a bird in flight, and breathe so lightly when you're waiting for a shot that I've seen a butterfly take a nap on your arm." Phil stands close to him, rests his hands lightly on Clint's shoulders. "You are amazing and I love you." He pauses. "You know what this benefit is for, right?"

Clint had been so distracted that he didn't finish reading to the end. "Oh," he says softly. "Yeah, I guess I have to go." The beneficiary is an organization called Safe Harbor that provides food, shelter and clothing for homeless teens. It's a great cause, and one that cuts right to Clint's heart. He takes a breath. "Want a date night?" he asks Phil hopefully.

"To see you in a suit? Absolutely."

"You've seen me in a suit before." Phil, hardened agent and all-around badass, blushes. Clint's smile widens, "Agent Coulson, do you have a suit kink?"

"Maybe a bit." Phil pulls Clint close again for a deep kiss. "But only for you. I love how it fits you here …" He kisses Clint's shoulders, "And here," as his lips whisper across his clavicle. He kneels gracefully in front of Clint. His fingers tease the button on Clint's jeans open and he slides the zipper down. Clint is commando beneath his sexy jeans. Phil licks the drop of come from his cock."Best of all … here …" 

Clint curses softly and the invitation flutters to the floor as he raises Phil up and they stumble to the bed.

**Chapter 1**

The invitation sits on Clint's bureau for a week. It's still two weeks to the benefit and Clint decides to see what's going on with Safe Harbor. He knows he is putting himself in a bad place by revisiting a past he's worked so hard to escape, but when Pepper asks him if he wants a tour, he agrees.

The building leased by Safe Harbor is in the South Bronx, a neighborhood that had the worst past possible in the 70's and slowly dragged itself up from the ashes to become a mix of residential properties and businesses. There are still pockets of poverty and decay, but the Safe Harbor site is solid and clean. It looks impressive, both welcoming and protective. The dark green door is flanked by two evergreens and marigolds in clay pots. There is a fenced in basketball court in back and even a grassy space with a picnic bench beneath a red maple sapling. Four teenage boys are shooting hoops while another is sitting at the picnic table, earphones in and restless fingers tapping in tune to the music on his player. Their clothes are clean, the sneakers look fairly new. Clint's sharp eyes can pick out bruises on one boy's face, and the boy at the picnic bench has a high, hard set to his shoulders. 

Clint can identify with these boys. After Barney left him near death in the hospital, Clint was out on the streets for months. He slept in doorways and alleys, scavenged for food in restaurant dumpsters, scrounged clothes from thrift store discard bins. On good days, people would take pity on him and throw a few dollars in his ball cap; enough for a fast-food burger and fries. On bad days, he didn't eat. And when things were really bad, he turned tricks. There hadn't been places like Safe Harbor for him. 

He knocks on the door, and it's answered by a thin young woman in a denim shirt with the Safe Harbor logo on the pocket. "Hi," she says. "Can I see your ID, sir?"

"Sure." He pulls out his license. "Ms. Potts called to arrange a tour?"

Her eyes widen. "You're Mr. Barton? I thought you'd be an old guy in a suit, not … you."

Clint laughs to put her at ease, but he wonders if he should have worn a suit instead of jeans and sneakers. "Naw, it's just me."

"I'm Clare. Come on in and meet the director. He'll take you around."

Clint looks around as he follows her down the hall. Everything is clean, from the laminate floors to the woodwork and the windows. It smells like furniture polish and soap, with the underlying funk of athletic shoes and teenage boys. "It's kind of quiet around here," he comments.

"Most of the boys are in school. They're here because their folks either lost their homes, or are in rehab or prison. They're not bad kids, they _want_ to learn. We give then a roof over their heads until their parents are back on their feet, or out of rehab with good prospects of not going back."

"The other boys?"

"They've been out on the streets, abused, no parents or family … the hard ones. We bring them in, keep them for a while, try to get them into foster care — which most of them refuse — they can stay until they're eighteen. We give them opportunities to work in local businesses, to learn real life skills. Try to keep them off the streets." 

Clint nods. He was one of the "hard" ones. He hadn't had a safe place to go. The only skills he had were carny tricks using a bow and arrow, and a mouth that could deep throat a cock for a few extra bucks. He hopes none of these boys have come from that far down. He knows how lucky he is, and he knows how hard the climb has been. 

Clare knocks on a door with a plaque reading prosaically, _office_. A deep voice rumbles, "Come in." Clare opens the door revealing a big desk with a big man sitting at it. His gray hair isn't worn long, but long enough to wave. His eyes are a sharp blue, but kind. He's a combination of Nick Fury and Coulson, and Clint holds out his hand when the man rises. "You must be Mr. Barton," the man crushes his hand in a grip like Thor's. 

"Clint, sir."

"Josiah Sanchez. Welcome to Safe Harbor."

"It's nice," Clint admits. 

"Let's get started." Clint follows him through the kitchen, the dining area, the neat dormitory bedrooms, the computer room and classroom, the big lounge on the top floor. He thinks about the shelters he had stayed in periodically and wishes he had a place like this instead of the hard cots and rough blankets, the diluted canned soup and soggy bread, and the supervisors who didn't understand what it was to be a gay teen, homeless, and abused. He wants Tony to fund this place, not just with one fundraiser, but as an ongoing charity. Tony has billions of dollars and this place could do so much with just a couple hundred thousand a year. 

When the tour is over, and Josiah has offered him coffee, Clint asks a few questions, trying not to show too much because this is really wrenching at his memories and his heart. "Um," he finally asks, "I'm not a role mode, or anything, but maybe I could help out here? Teach some self-defense classes? Simple stuff that might come in handy for anybody?"

"Not archery?" Josiah raises a brow and laughs at his own joke.

"Not enough room, man." Clint laughs back. "Your neighbors might not appreciate arrows through their windows."

Josiah smiles. "True, brother, true." He fixes Clint with a narrow study. "You know what it's like," he says. "This means something to you."

Clint can't meet Sanchez's gaze but he can't escape it, either. "Yeah, I know what it's like. This place … if I'd had a place like this to go to, my life might have been — different."

"Not better?"

Clint is suddenly conscious of the weight of his wedding ring and what it means. "Hell, I've got more than I ever dreamed I'd have, so I'm not complaining." He takes a breath, "But, yeah, it could have been easier." He stands up. "Thanks for the tour and the coffee. I'll help you any way I can." 

"You might end up in the kitchen," Josiah says, like that would faze Clint one iota. 

"You're on big man," Clint grins and salutes. "Call me."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint doesn't do ties, but when Tony Stark throws a charity bash for homeless teens, Clint can't refuse. Fortunately, he knows somebody with ties to share.

**Chapter 2**

Clint is sent on a mission five days before the benefit. Coulson, still on desk duty, will monitor from S.H.I.E.L.D., but it should be a milk run to do a reconnaissance on a suspected A.I.M. facility in Tijuana. Intel has it as a laboratory, manned by scientists and a small military contingent; hence, the strike team will need a sniper. The Avengers haven't been called in, Natasha is spying in Ukraine, and Tony is rebuilding his home in Malibu. Cap is touring New England and Thor is back in Asgard. Bruce has fled NYC for India and a few weeks of meditation and yoga. Coulson says Clint is driving him crazy and Clint is the first to admit that boredom never did sit well with him. It's wheels up at dawn, and Clint doesn't even spare a glance at the suit and crisp shirt hanging in his closet. He's too busy undressing Coulson. 

Phil sighs as Clint slides his shirt off and starts kissing his way down Coulson's torso, following the fine line of hair down low on his belly. "You'll be back in two days," he says softly, his fingers tangling through Clint's hair.

"I'll still miss you," Clint mumbles against Phil's skin, the tickle of his breath setting Phil's muscles to quivering beneath his lips. It's breathtakingly sexy. 

"Don't fall off any buildings,"

"Stop talking," Clint replies. "I won't." He opens Phil's trousers and gives them a gentle tug over his hips. The wool whispers to the floor and he guides Phil to the bed. "I'd rather fall into bed with you."

"That is the most cloying cliche I've ever heard."

"Sweet," Clint says nuzzling into the curls at Phil's groin. "Your cock isn't with that program." He takes Phil's shaft into his mouth. Phil stops talking, Clint notices. Then they are both past the point of speech. It's a good way to say goodbye. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Forty-eight hours later, Clint is in S.H.I.E.L.D. medical. He has multiple bruises and contusions, strained ribs and a separated shoulder. He also has a black eye fading to a sickly greenish yellow. Nothing serious, not even enough to keep him in medical for more than one night. Natasha comes over and gives him a fond upside the head. 

"What were you thinking, sparrow?"

"Hey, I did _not_ jump off the building. The building fell on me after those jerks set a self-destruct."

"Coulson isn't impressed with your heroics."

"I've come home in worse shape. _You've_ come home in worse shape and so has Coulson. So stop picking on me."

"You are such a child."

"Brat."

She glares at him for a second, then leans down and places a surprisingly gentle kiss on his hair. "See you at the benefit."

Clint had forgotten. He sighs. "Yeah, I'll be there." He would have to have a broken leg at the very least to miss that. Meanwhile, he hadn't slept well on the flight and he was warm and relaxed. The painkillers they'd given him are just strong enough to make him drowsy and comfortable. He closes his eyes and drifts. 

"Barton … Clint?" Phil's voice, soft and insistent wakes him. He stretches cautiously, wincing as his ribs protest. 

"Hey?" He blinks at Phil. 

"Are you awake enough to come home?"

"Always." Still, it's a struggle to sit up; ribs and shoulder protesting the movement. Phil wraps his arm around Clint and braces him. 

"Are you sure? We can do this in the morning, if you're not up to it."

"I'm not up to a lot of things, going home isn't one of them," Clint says ruefully. 

Phil has a bag with a pair of Clint's favorite jeans and a zippered hoodie. He helps him get dressed and kneels to tie his boots. Clint can't resist. He reaches down and strokes Phil's hair, the strands soft beneath his fingers. Phil finishes and looks up at Clint. His blue eyes are warm and kind, his hands gentle. "Let's go home."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Their apartment has gradually become a melding of their lives. The purple afghan Natasha crocheted for Clint lives on the back of Phil's expansive couch. The collection of action films and TV series that Clint loves are stacked next to Phil's classic movies. One of Clint's Converse All-Stars lies on its side next to a pair of Phil's polished oxfords. The walls are a soft sage green, the kitchen is the color of new cream with pale gold cabinetry. An antique recurve bow is hung on one wall, Phil's vintage Captain America poster is above the mantel in a place of honor. The bookshelves hold, besides Phil's collection of first editions of classic spy novels and superhero comics, a portrait of Clint and Phil on their wedding day. And that pretty much summed up what home meant to Clint. It was the first place he ever lived that fit his heart and soul.

He lets Phil guide him over to the couch and sinks down into the deep cushions with a sigh of relief. "That's better." He tugs the afghan down and snuggles into it. "Wake me up when dinner's here."

"Chinese or from Mort's?"

"Matzo ball soup from Mort's?"

"Good choice." Clint sighs in contentment which makes Phil smile. 

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint doesn't do ties, but when Tony Stark throws a charity bash for homeless teens, Clint can't refuse. Fortunately, he knows somebody with ties to share.

**Chapter 3**

_The Night of the Benefit_

Clint looks in the mirror, scowls through the steam and gives it a swipe with his hand to clear it. He still looks like Thor punched him; the bruise on his cheekbone is mottled purple and green with yellow streaks circling his eye. The cut at his hairline has scabbed over; new skin showing pink at the edges. He's a rainbow of sickly colors. At least he can shave. Stubble would have made him look like Phil had dragged a derelict from an alley into Stark's glittering extravaganza. 

He sighs, puts on his robe and goes into the bedroom. His suit is hanging on the closet door. He and Phil had selected it together; a gray wool and silk blend with a barely discernible purple pinstripe woven through it, and a sleek black silk shirt.

Clint looks at the ties hung on his closet doorknob. The rep stripe is totally wrong, the dark gray one is splashed with soy sauce, and the purple one looks like Lucky was using it for a chew toy. Thankfully, he has a husband who has more ties than Macy's.   "Hey, Phil, Can I borrow a tie?"

Phil comes in wearing a perfect black suit, and pristine white shirt with silver and black S.H.I.E.LD. cufflinks. His tie is black and silver. He holds a jeweler's box in one hand, a tie in the other. The tie is silver with tiny dark purple chevrons woven through it. "Here."

It's perfect. Phil thumbs open the box. The cufflinks are hammered silver arrowheads. "Holy crap, Phil, what's this?"

"For you." He takes Clint's left wrist and snaps the link through the cuff, then does the same to the right one. He threads the tie through Clint's collar and knots it. He pulls Clint close and kisses him gently. "Don't even think you're not worth it." 

Clint blushes, which must clash horribly with his shiner. "I-I'll try not to drip wing sauce on it."

"I don't think wings are on the menu tonight." He leans in and kisses the corner of Clint's mouth. His smooth cheek is firm against Clint's and he smells like skin and the expensive aftershave Tony had given him for Christmas.

"Can't we just stay home and undress each other?" Clint whispers. "That's a party."

"Not a chance. I want to go out with you. I want the world to see the amazing man who married me." 

"Even in all my technicolor glory?"

"At least it doesn't clash with your suit." Phil gives him a final quick kiss. "Time to go."

"If you don't get me home before midnight, I'll turn into a pumpkin."

"And I'll turn back into a mouse," Phil jokes as they head out the door. 

Clint stops, turns to Phil and says almost fiercely. "There ain't nothing mousy about you, boss." He's smiling, but his eyes are focused and bright. "Let's go and give people something to talk about." He opens his hand and their wedding rings glimmer in the light. 

"I love you," Phil says passionately,

"I know," Clint's smile has a bit of the cat licking cream from its whiskers. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

They walk in together, Clint's arm tucked into Phil's, their silver wedding bands worn for the world to see — though most people here are too self-absorbed to notice and the rest are their friends who were already in the loop; still it feels good to have Phil close to his side. 

Tony is standing at the bar with Pepper. Her red hair is styled in a complicated up-do, and her white dress is simple and elegant. Tony, in a dark blue suit and shirt with a red and gold Ironman tie looks every inch the billionaire he is. He leans against the bar and raises a brow. "Is it the Barton-Coulson's or the Coulson-Barton's?"

Clint rolls his eyes. "FYI, we kept our maiden names," he says and Tony barks out a laugh. 

Phil clears his throat to hide a chuckle before he continues evenly, "You've got quit a good turn out."

"It's amazing what a little celebrity and the promise of super heroes can do."

Clint looks at Tony, his eyes slightly wild. "Wait — no. No super heroes, Tony. I'm not Hawkeye tonight, I'm just plain Clint Barton out for a night with my husband."

"Oh, please, spare me the false modesty, Barton."

Phil glowers at Tony. "I still have my taser, Stark."

"Stop baiting them, Tony," Pepper says and puts her hand on Phil's arm. "Tony says he won't dance with me until after he makes the presentation to the shelter. Care to take a spin? That is if Clint won't mind …"

"Go ahead, cut a rug you crazy kids."

Tony chokes on his Scotch. "So," he says when he's recovered, "you went to Safe Harbor?"

"Yeah. It's impressive. Mr. Sanchez is a cool guy."

"Good. It's nice to have the opinion of a guy —" He pauses, apparently taken aback by the look on Clint's face. "Listen, Barton, it's not like I was snooping into your secret files."

But it kind of is like that, Clint thinks. He knows his background isn't necessarily classified, but it's _his_ , not Tony's, not to be shared like common knowledge. He's irrationally angry, feeling like Stark took advantage of him. "No? Then what is it? You decided to send Pepper on a little fact-finding mission?"

Tony has the grace to look contrite. "I figured you'd do it for Pepper and that you'd be able to pick up any bad vibes if anybody could. Right? Like it's an op, okay?"

"It's not an op, Tony. It's kids' lives."

"Do you honestly think I don't know that? Sure I grew up in a mansion, surrounded by servants, but my mother was dead, my father was just about absent, and I _wish_ just once that I had somebody — a father-figure in my life — to help me grow up. Because sometimes Pepper says I never have." He turns to Clint, self-deprecating. "I don't trust my instincts when it comes to people, It hasn't worked out too well for me."

Clint knows he's talking about Obadiah Stane, the bastard who tried to steal Tony's company and kill him in the bargain. That was harsh. At least Clint had grown up with betrayal and hadn't learned there was a better life until Phil and S.H.I.E.L.D. had given him other alternatives.

His eyes wandered over the crowd, finding Phil dancing with Pepper. He sees Josiah Sanchez and his petite assistant working the crowd. Sanches is wearing a nice suit, his assistant is in a blue dress. She seems a little overwhelmed and Clint guesses she's never been to a gala like this. He wants to say something to Tony, but he's been dragged into a conversation with a power couple Clint recognizes from the society pages of the NYT. Not that Clint is in the habit of reading the society pages, but Coulson would leave them laying around for weeks if Clint doesn't drag them out to the recycle bin. 

He crosses the room, inclines his head at Phil to signal his intentions. Phil nods and turns his attention back to Pepper while watching Clint tap the young woman on the shoulder. Her eyes open up wide and she and nods. Clint leads her out on the floor. When they part, Clint kisses her on the cheek then makes his way over to Phil. 

Phil raises a brow. "I think you just made that young woman feel like Cinderella."

Clint snorts, "Some Prince Charming I am. Besides, I'm about to turn into a pumpkin, remember?"

Phil frowns at him, concerned, as if he can sense Clint's earlier disquiet. "Do you want to go home?" he asks, his hand warm on Clint's arm. 

"I kind of do," Clint admits. "One thing first." He holds out his hand to Phil. "So, here I am, no sauce spilled on my tie, no blood, no dog drool. Wanna dance?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Phil whispers against his ear as he slides his arm around Clint's waist. "I lead."

"You're the boss." He moves closer until his thighs are pressed close to Phil's. Damn, it feels good to be held like this. He doesn't care if some of Stark's high-flying friends are shocked, he doesn't care that Stark is making inappropriate remarks to a blushing Pepper. If Clint wants to dance with his husband, he's gonna dance with him. 

He catches a glimpse of Sanchez, who winks at him, and his assistant, who looks disappointed until Tony leaves Pepper's side and bows ridiculously, one hand extended to her. 

They finish one dance, then another, until Clint decides enough is enough and pulls Phil off the floor. "We're going home," he says. 

"Who's the boss now?" Phil teases; but he kisses Clint. "I love you."

"Yeah? Not as much as I'm going to love you when we get home." They walk out of the ballroom, arms wrapped around each other's waists, stumbling slightly when they pause to kiss. Lola is waiting, and the night is warm and clear. 

Phil drives through the city streets and Clint rests his head back and watches the lights go by, the way the shadows play across Phil's face; he loves to drive Lola and he looks relaxed and happy. It's rare to see him like this and Clint feels a place in his heart warm at the sight of this man he calls his husband. Phil smiles. "You're staring at me."

"I am. You're worth staring at."

"That's not fair since I can't stare back." Phil glances over at him and his hand rests on Clint's thigh for a moment. "I promise I'll make up for it later."

"Staring is a little creepy, " Clint says, but he holds Phil's hand and kisses his knuckles. "Admiring … now that's cool."

"I can be cool."

They ride the rest of the way in silence. Even when Phil has to move his hand to shift, he returns it to Clint's hold. It's awesome; awesome, amazing and humbling. He's never been sure that he deserves Phil. He still doesn't, though sometimes it's easier to believe when he looks at the ring Phil placed on his finger.

Phil wheels Lola into his protected garage. Clint is pretty sure there are times that Phil loves the car more than him. Lola lives in heated and cooled comfort while Clint spends most of his time in conditions the red 'vette is never exposed to rain, snow, bitter cold, dust storms. "You love this car more than you love me," he sighs and Phil laughs.

"She never talks back to me, or throws herself off buildings, or drinks my favorite coffee." He tilts his head and kisses Clint. "On the other hand, I'd rather sleep with you."

"Mmm …" Clint kisses back and takes control, nibbling at the corners of Phil's mouth, at the curve of his lower lip, on his smooth cheek, working his way up to the crinkles at his eyes. They're deeper now that when they first met, but his eyes are as kind, and from the beginning nobody has ever looked at him like Phil does — like he's valuable and worth protecting, even though at first he tried to hide it behind his wry sense of humor. "Speaking of bed, can we go upstairs before Lola's gearshift leaves a permanent mark on my ribs?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

^*^*^*^*^  
It takes a while for them to actually _get_ to their apartment, between kissing their way out of the parking garage, to riding the elevator up to their floor, while Clint is clearly intent on paying attention to every inch of Phil's skin he can reach, to Phil trying to key in their ID with his right hand while palming Clint's cock with his left hand. Not that Clint is fighting against that or anything. 

By the time they're inside, it's a struggle just to make it into the bedroom. Clint would be perfectly happy fucking Coulson senseless against the wall but Phil pushes him away. "Not like this," he says, his breath hot against Clint's skin. "You've been hurt and I'm too old. Bed. Now."

"Ooh, I get all shivery when you go all super agent on me," Clint smirks, but he takes Phil's tie in his hand and leads the way to their bedroom. Phil's tie is soft in his hands and once inside, he releases his grip and gently smooths the fabric. "I love this tie," he says.

"How many drinks did you have?" Phil arches his brow. 

"None. I'm drunk on _luuuurve_." Clint gives a sexy wiggle of his butt and Phil bursts out laughing. 

"You're ridiculous," he says fondly. He gently loosens Clint's tie. "How do you feel about this one?"

"It's a nice tie." He nibbles at Phil's earlobe. "My husband gave it to me. He has great taste."

"Mmm." Phil slips it out of the collar and starts to work on the buttons on Clint's shirt. When the tie is hanging loose on Clint's bare chest, he unbuckles Clint's belt and unbuttons his pants, pulling the zipper down until the slacks hang loose and low on Clint's hips. "Get on the bed," he orders.

Clint decides this is definitely hot. He toes off his shoes and lies down. Phil strips off his socks, then his slacks. The fly of Clint's boxer briefs is damp with come. But when Phil reaches to tug them off, Clint catches his hand. "I don't think so, boss. One of us has too many clothes on. Take 'em off."

Phil gives him an evil grin and lays his body over Clint's. He kisses his way down Clint's chest, then pauses long enough to take off his own shirt. It slides down his shoulders and Clint sighs at the sight of Phil's arms and shoulders. He hides those muscles under crisp shirts and tailored suits, but they're gorgeous. Clint runs his hands down Phil's arms; the beautiful broad shoulders,  
the rise and fall of his biceps, the hard, corded forearms. "Please, Phil, " he breathes. "I want all of you."

Phil kisses him tenderly. "You have that," he says softly, but he strips and then slides Clint's briefs down, leaving him naked but for the tie draped across his skin. A flush rises from his chest to his throat and colors his cheeks. Phil's smile, the heat in his eyes, the way he touches Clint, as if every scar has meaning and value instead of being just another mark in a hard life. 

They've been together long enough, know each other well enough, that the rest is easy. 

^*^*^*^*^*^  
Clint wakes up with his head pillowed on Phil's hard chest. He'll have a crick in his neck and Phil's arm will be numb if he doesn't move, but he can't work up the ambition to move. He loves being close to Phil like this; the two of them, nothing else. Their hearts beating, their breath matching as their chests rise and fall. They don't need danger, threats, wild alien creatures, enemies surrounding them, to know that they belong to each other. 

"Deep thoughts?" Phil's voice is sleepy, warm.

"Sorry if they woke you," Clint sighs and breathes in the scent of Phil's skin where is it soft and warm beneath his jaw. 

"Worth sharing?"

Clint shakes his head. "No worries. They were good thoughts. Go back to sleep." He nestles closer.

"Mmm." Phil is already drifting off. Clint slides away to free his arm and Phil turns on his side, pulling Clint into the curve of his body. Clint sighs and lets sleep cover him. 

**The End**


End file.
